


I'll Be Your Player

by roachpatrol



Category: Homestuck
Genre: College, Daddy Issues, Kink Meme, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-06-25
Updated: 2011-06-25
Packaged: 2017-10-20 17:24:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,553
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/215204
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/roachpatrol/pseuds/roachpatrol
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>You'd said "Thanks, son," and ruffled his hair, all Ward Cleaver up in this shit, and he'd made this dick-wrenchingly low little squeak and gone perfectly still.</p><p>Your hand is still in his hair.</p>
            </blockquote>





	I'll Be Your Player

**Author's Note:**

> Yeah, you can play your sex games,  
> kinky things but still maintain  
> I'm running game while you giggle off my ghetto slang  
> I want the best for you  
> \-- _I'll Be Your Player_ , Trick Daddy.

  
Your name is Dave Strider, and your roomate is kind of fucked up. This is okay, though, because he is also drop dead gorgeous and you are also maybe not as entirely heterosexual as you sometimes make yourself out to be.

And he might not be, either.

What went down was that you were in the kitchen, frying up some french toast because it's ten at night and you're both maybe a little more high than you strictly should be for all the homework you need to get through-- those bars aren't gonna pass themselves-- and he'd passed you another egg without you even having to ask.

You'd said "Thanks, son," and ruffled his hair, all Ward Cleaver up in this shit, and he'd made this dick-wrenchingly low little squeak and gone perfectly still.

Your hand is still in his hair.

You set the egg down on the counter, and move the pan off the burner so your shit doesn't fry, because all these little gears are coming together in your head and french toast has just been backbenched in the national tournament of things Dave Strider gives a shit about but if this is heading anywhere you think it's heading you're both going to really want some french toast afterwards.

He's still standing there. His eyes are wide and impossibly blue, his mouth set in this hesitant little distressed shape. He's such a twink, only half a year younger than you but still somehow such a _kid_ with those round cheeks and that wild hair and those big, big blue eyes behind his glasses, the kind of baby blues that catch a guy's soul all up in claws and there's something infinitely sad in that, too.

"Son," you say, not even like a gangster or anything, not like _aw shit son you gots to get your ass in gear straight up dope_ but still kind of gentle, like the way your Bro calls you _bro_ , like this kid is _your_ kid.

He trembles all over, when you run your fingers through his hair. "Dave," he says, almost a gasp. How high is he...? High enough that he's letting you do this, letting you pull him close and press a careful kiss to his forehead, then the corner of his mouth.

"Da-- _Dave_ ," he mumbles, and he still doesn't pull away.

He doesn't have a dad, you remember. Hasn't since he was a little kid, twelve, thirteen, he's said a little about being in and out of foster care for half his life, but mostly he doesn't say anything about it at all and you're not the kind of guy to go pouring salt into such gaping wounds. You had Bro over last fathers' day because your Bro is bro enough for half a dozen kids' dads, and you ate pizza and watched Ghost Dad and threw peperoni at the screen and took shots every time anyone made a big deal over the Ghost Dad being either a ghost or a dad and John had gotten totally blitzed off peach schnapps and ended up sprawled out between the two of you, the gorgeous heavy stretch of his arms wrapped around your waist. Summers working construction are kind to this kid, ten hours a day swinging a hammer for three months straight gives him enough pocket change to last through the winter terms and the kind of arms that would make a gym rat bite through a table from envy, and he'd mushed his face up against your thigh as sweetly as a fuzzy little kitten and fallen asleep.

Bro had given you a fistbump and let himself out.

You let your hands trail down John's jaw, now, and he trembles again and everything makes so much sense.

You are Dave Strider and you are gonna get laid tonight with your best friend.

"Let's go to bed, son," you say. He nods, convulsively.

"The toast--"

"It'll be there after we get up, kiddo." Keep it calm, keep it cool-- "That's why they call it breakfast."

"...Right."

He takes your hand, kind of shyly, and you squeeze it and lead him into your bedroom. You've got a cool dorm with separate bedrooms instead of the bullshit bunkbed cellblock misery that some twerps gets saddled with, and John's real good about respecting your space. You're not sure if he's ever even been in here, and you can see him looking around with interest at your photos and ironic Japanese catgirl pinups. Cats and girls have never done it for you, but with John sort of looking at them, head tilting to one side like they're the fucking rosetta stone and he's some fresh-off-the-camel hotshot porn archaeologist, you kind of wish you were a little less ironic sometimes. Or the kind of ironic that more people _got_.

"Head in the game, son," you remind him, and he presses a little closer to you. "Halftime's coming up and we gotta stay sharp, okay, other team's got some great opposition this year but we're gonna send them packing like they're professional movers, you get me, wrapping that couch of shame up real nice in bubble wrap and loading it on to the handtruck of defeat--" you break it off. This isn't time for a flow, however deliriously fresh, this is time to corral a having-some-really-obvious-second-thoughts John back on the bed.

"Last five seconds didn't just happen," you say firmly, pushing him on to his back.

"Dave, I'm not sure about this," he says.

You sit down beside him, and ruffle his hair again. He likes that, the sick puppy, he quietens right the fuck down, his absurdly long dark eyelashes fluttering shut over his eyes. He's got the most ridiculous little blush, high across his cheeks, candy-pink and drowning out his scatter of freckles. You pet him, you sit there beside him and you stroke his hair, not really pushing, just enjoying watching him start to squirm a little, his bare feet kind of shuffling along your blankets, his hands twisting up the hem of the standard-issue Princeton hoodie that he doesn't even have the grace to wear ironically. He's packing some heat in those jeans, by now, and you are so tempted to get your hands on that piece of business, get that shit into your inbox pronto and hold all your calls for the next hundred years. But you're starting to get a little weirded out yourself, all like _now what_ , where do you go from here without this being fucked up ten ways from Sunday and probably illegal another ten ways more. 

"Love you, kid," you offer, and he shivers all over. He sits up fast and hooks his hands in your own hoodie and mashes his mouth up against yours. He's got serious teeth and they click painfully against yours, but you grab him before he can retreat and you twist your head and suck on his lower lip and he moans. The two of you kind of line up properly, and kissing John's just like you always thought-- hoped-- it would be, he's all inexperience and wild enthusiasm, wet and warm and eager and pliant. You bowl him back over, hold him down and devour him. He tastes like cheap black coffee and powdered sugar and some deeper subtler taste that must just be John, _John_ , and you're moaning his name low and needy and it's a damn good thing you're cool enough to get away with that.

He gasps "Dad--" and it's close enough to _Dave_ and about a million miles away and each of those miles are made of sexy, sexy inches.

You're not making that much sense anymore, even to yourself.

"Proud of you, John," you mumble, improvising as you go, "so proud of you, you're my boy, you're my good boy, my son, I'm so so proud--" and he _whines_ and clings to you, lets you get your hands inside those worn-out old bluejeans of his, and he's not wearing underwear and _John fucking Egbert goes commando_ and you don't know if this is a weekend thing or an all-the-time thing but you do know you're gonna be employing the boner shuffle from class to class for months now because John fucking Egbert apparently hangs around you with his dick one thin, thin layer of denim between him and your hungry fingers. Zero layers, though, now, and you pump it and he buries his head in your neck and almost cries, sobs "Dad, Dad, _Dave,_ god, Daddy, please--"

"God you're hot," you gasp. "Let me fuck you, please--"

"What-- Da-- Dave, I don't--" he pulls away, startled.

"Be a good boy, John," you say, firmly, and he capitulates fast enough to give you whiplash.

"Anything you want," he agrees, and it would make you feel guilty if all your blood wasn't being rerouted to the more awesome parts of your anatomy, like your Pimp Gland and your Totally Gonna Fuck This Devastatingly Sexy Boy Right Now Lobes.

"You're mine, you're my kid--" you suck a hickey into his neck, the prickle of stubble electric against your cheek because he never fucking shaves on the weekend, sloppy kid, you suck another mark into the bare smooth ridge of his collarbone. "God, I love you, I love you like this."

" _Daddy_ \--"

"That's me, I'm your daddy. Come on, get your shirt off."

He rips his clothes off, clumsy and frantic, and sprawls back desperately eager to please while you shuck out of your own and rummage through your nightstand. He palms at his dick, watching you with wide, wondering eyes, and the juxtaposition is too much, those gorgeous tradesman's arms and the studious preppy glasses, the bright pink flush of his dick against his thigh and that vulnerable, puppyish caution stamped all over his face, you can't get enough of these broken pieces to fit together into an understandable whole. John Ebert is a mystery unto himself, and you're making your way through this blind, trying not to make any more bits of him go _crunch_.

"You ever done this before?"

He shakes his head.

"Course you haven't. You're a good kid, aren't you? Here, come and sit on daddy's lap," and god would you ever laugh at anyone else saying the kind of shit you're busting out. But he digs his teeth into his lower lip, climbs awkwardly into place as you settle back against your headboard. 

"Can you touch me?" you ask.

"Like this?" He takes your dick in hand, squeezes tentatively.

"Like-- _yeah_. Good boy, _good--_ ah, John, shit you're so good-" you coax, slathering some lube on your fingers, letting him get into it, handle you a little more firmly. He smiles, a shy little flash of teeth, peers up at you through those eyelashes. He's still got his glasses on and it should be illegal to do that in fifty states and Mexico, he is just that gorgeous. You slip your fingers down the curve of his ass, down to just behind his balls, and he tenses up.

"Relax, son," you tell him, laying a kiss to his forehead, his temple, "I want you to work with me here."

He takes a shuddering breath, his hands suddenly vice-grip around your hips, and nods. You press a finger up into him and he takes another shuddering breath, then another, working his hips a little testingly-- working with you.

"You alright, son?"

He takes a deep breath, nods again. He lets you work him open, taking it easy, keeping him calm. His eyes lid farther and farther, his head nods down to your shoulder, rocking with you, slipping into this beautiful shuddery fuge while you stroke his hair and rub his back and work two fingers into him, three. You've done this often enough that you know where to aim, and after a while you've got him pliant and purring-- maybe he's done this before too, he's taking it like a champ and you tell him this and he just purrs a little harder, a strung-out sexy warble of pleasure. His arms are draped in a heavy collar around your neck, and he's rutting his dick up against yours slick and sloppy, and you've got three fingers spread wide in him and it's time.

You pull away, set probably the world record for fastest condom unwrapped, roll it on to your aching cock so quickly you practically get a friction burn, but it's worth it when John moans low in his throat and kisses your jaw, kisses your ear, mumbles _"Yeah, please, daddy, fuck me--"  
_  
You hike him up a little closer, tilt your hips up, and then you are Dave Strider fucking your best friend, this broken brilliant breathtaking weirdo kid that's stumbled into your life and your dorm and your heart and taken over _everything._

He feels amazing.

You thrust one, twice, and he shudders all over and throws his head back, crying out, lets you wrap your arms around his ribs and kiss him all over, he's practically going to pieces.

"Fuck me," he moans, "Daddy, please, please, come on, fuck me, use me--"

"I will, I will, oh, John, god--"

"I'm good, aren't I, aren't I good--"

"You're the best," you gasp, and fuck one final time up into him and he convulses against you, clamping down hard and so warm and so tight, and he comes. It spatters up your stomach, even your chest, and he works his hips the whole way through, grinding down on you, working on you, working _with_ you and crying out some indecipherable mess of _Dave_ and _Dad_ and _Love you, love you so much_.

"Son," you choke out, " _mine,"_ and you come too, biting down hard into the curve of one taut bicep, leaving your mark.

After it's all over and you've pulled out, John sort of crawls off you, curls up in a tight little ball on a corner of the bed. He's breathing hard, dazed and fucked-up and fucked-out, still breathing so hard, gasping and shuddering, almost crying. The scattering of hickeys you left all over him look a good deal less sexy now, a good deal more accusative.

You go strip the condom off, knot it closed and toss it in your waste-bin.

"You okay, bro?" you ask, kind of awkwardly.

"I'm not gay," he says, abruptly. His eyes are kind of frantic, his mouth is just absolutely _torn up_ from all the kissing. "I'm not a fag, Dave!"

You're tempted to say _then what the fuck was that_ but you are pretty sure you know. You've fucked enough boys who're so closeted they sneeze coat hangers to know when not to push an issue. You pull him into a hug, stroke his hair till he kind of calms down, uncurls a little.

"We're friends, right?"

"Yeah."

"You'd be there for me, right, if I needed you?"

"...yeah, of course."

"That's what this was. You want me to be your dad, I'm your dad."

He presses his face against your shoulder. "I'm not _gay._ "

"You're my kid," you say, and lay a kiss in his messy hair. "You're mine."

He breaths out, low and trembling.

Breathes in.

"Okay," he says.

"Come on, let's go have some breakfast."

"Okay," he says again, and kisses your cheek.


End file.
